FOUR QUARTETS T.S.

Eliot

"Although logos is common to all, most people live as if they had a wisdom of their own." 1. p.77. Fr.2 "The way upward and the way downward are the same." 1. p.89. Fr.60

Diels: Die Fragmente der Vorsokratiker (Herakleitos)

BUIRNT NORTON (No. 1 of 'Four Quartets') T.S. Eliot

I

Time present and time past

Are both perhaps present in time future, And time future contained in time past. If all time is eternally present All time is unredeemable. What might have been is an abstraction Remaining a perpetual possibility Only in a world of speculation. What might have been and what has been Point to one end, which is always present. Footfalls echo in the memory Down the passage which we did not take Towards the door we never opened Into the rose-garden. My words echo Thus, in your mind. But to what purpose Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves I do not know. Other echoes Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow? Quick, said the bird, find them, find them, Round the corner. Through the first gate, Into our first world, shall we follow

The deception of the thrush? Into our first world. There they were, dignified, invisible, Moving without pressure, over the dead leaves, In the autumn heat, through the vibrant air, And the bird called, in response to The unheard music hidden in the shrubbery, And the unseen eyebeam crossed, for the roses Had the look of flowers that are looked at. There they were as our guests, accepted and accepting. So we moved, and they, in a formal pattern, Along the empty alley, into the box circle, To look down into the drained pool. Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged, And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight, And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly, The surface glittered out of heart of light, And they were behind us, reflected in the pool. Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty. Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children, Hidden excitedly, containing laughter. Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind

Cannot bear very much reality. Time past and time future What might have been and what has been Point to one end, which is always present.

II

Garlic and sapphires in the mud Clot the bedded axle-tree. The trilling wire in the blood Sings below inveterate scars Appeasing long forgotten wars. The dance along the artery The circulation of the lymph Are figured in the drift of stars Ascend to summer in the tree We move above the moving tree In light upon the figured leaf And hear upon the sodden floor Below, the boarhound and the boar

Pursue their pattern as before But reconciled among the stars.

At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless; Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is, But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity, Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards, Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point, There would be no dance, and there is only the dance. I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where. And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time. The inner freedom from the practical desire, The release from action and suffering, release from the inner And the outer compulsion, yet surrounded By a grace of sense, a white light still and moving, Erhebung without motion, concentration

understood In the completion of its partial ecstasy. Time past and time future Allow but a little consciousness. The resolution of its partial horror. involved with past and future. Protects mankind from heaven and damnation Which flesh cannot endure.Without elimination. Yet the enchainment of past and future Woven in the weakness of the changing body. To be conscious is not to be in time But only in time can the moment in the rose-garden. both a new world And the old made explicit. The moment in the arbour where the rain beat. Only through time time is conquered. The moment in the draughty church at smokefall Be remembered. III Here is a place of disaffection .

whirled by the cold wind That blows before and after time.Time before and time after In a dim light: neither daylight Investing form with lucid stillness Turning shadow into transient beauty With slow rotation suggesting permanence Nor darkness to purify the soul Emptying the sensual with deprivation Cleansing affection from the temporal. Hampstead and Clerkenwell. Campden and Putney. Only a flicker Over the strained time-ridden faces Distracted from distraction by distraction Filled with fancies and empty of meaning Tumid apathy with no concentration Men and bits of paper. Eructation of unhealthy souls Into the faded air. Neither plenitude nor vacancy. the torpid Driven on the wind that sweeps the gloomy hills of London. . Wind in and out of unwholesome lungs Time before and time after.

but that which is not world. Evacuation of the world of fancy.Highgate. on its metalled ways Of time past and time future. Primrose and Ludgate. Internal darkness. Not here Not here the darkness. and the other Is the same. IV . World not world. in this twittering world. Descend lower. Inoperancy of the world of spirit. deprivation And destitution of all property. not in movement But abstention from movement. descend only Into the world of perpetual solitude. Desiccation of the world of sense. while the world moves In appetency. This is the one way.

tendril and spray Clutch and cling? Chill Fingers of yew be curled Down on us? After the kingfisher's wing Has answered light to light. but that which is only living Can only die. music moves Only in time. will the clematis Stray down. The black cloud carries the sun away. and is silent. the light is still At the still point of the turning world. reach Into the silence. V Words move. bend to us. after speech. Words. Will the sunflower turn to us. Can words or music reach . the pattern. Only by the form.Time and the bell have buried the day.

perish. Under the tension. Desire itself is movement Not in itself desirable. slide. or merely chattering. will not stay in place. while the note lasts. The loud lament of the disconsolate chimera. under the burden. Not that only. Not the stillness of the violin. mocking.The stillness. Will not stay still. As in the figure of the ten stairs. The crying shadow in the funeral dance. The Word in the desert Is most attacked by voices of temptation. slip. Always assail them. as a Chinese jar still Moves perpetually in its stillness. but the co-existence. . And all is always now. Shrieking voices Scolding. Or say that the end precedes the beginning. Crack and sometimes break. Decay with imprecision. And the end and the beginning were always there Before the beginning and after the end. The detail of the pattern is movement. Words strain.

Only the cause and end of movement. 2 of 'Four Quartets') T. Eliot I .S. Sudden in a shaft of sunlight Even while the dust moves There rises the hidden laughter Of children in the foliage Quick now. now.Love is itself unmoving. always— Ridiculous the waste sad time Stretching before and after. and undesiring Except in the aspect of time Caught in the form of limitation Between un-being and being. EAST COKER (No. Timeless. here.

Old fires to ashes. In succession Houses rise and fall. cornstalk and leaf. And the deep lane insists on the direction Into the village. Bone of man and beast. In a warm haze the sultry light .In my beginning is my end. or a by-pass. Houses live and die: there is a time for building And a time for living and for generation And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane And to shake the wainscot where the field-mouse trots And to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto. restored. fur and faeces. and ashes to the earth Which is already flesh. In my beginning is my end. Are removed. Where you lean against a bank while a van passes. leaving the deep lane Shuttered with branches. or in their place Is an open field. crumble. dark in the afternoon. Old stone to new building. Now the light falls Across the open field. in the electric heat Hypnotised. are extended. destroyed. or a factory. old timber to new fires.

lifted in country mirth Mirth of those long since under earth . not refracted. necessarye coniunction. Earth feet. signifying matrimonie— A dignified and commodiois sacrament. loam feet. if you do not come too close. by grey stone. you can hear the music Of the weak pipe and the little drum And see them dancing around the bonfire The association of man and woman In daunsinge. Rustically solemn or in rustic laughter Lifting heavy feet in clumsy shoes. or joined in circles. The dahlias sleep in the empty silence.Is absorbed. On a summer midnight. Round and round the fire Leaping through the flames. Two and two. Holding eche other by the hand or the arm Whiche betokeneth concorde. Wait for the early owl. In that open field If you do not come too close.

I am here Or there. II What is the late November doing With the disturbance of the spring And creatures of the summer heat. In my beginning. Feet rising and falling. Dung and death. . or elsewhere. Keeping time.Nourishing the corn. Keeping the rhythm in their dancing As in their living in the living seasons The time of the seasons and the constellations The time of milking and the time of harvest The time of the coupling of man and woman And that of beasts. Dawn points. and another day Prepares for heat and silence. Out at sea the dawn wind Wrinkles and slides. Eating and drinking.

The poetry does not matter. . Leaving one still with the intolerable wrestle With words and meanings. That was a way of putting it—not very satisfactory: A periphrastic study in a worn-out poetical fashion.And snowdrops writhing under feet And hollyhocks that aim too high Red into grey and tumble down Late roses filled with early snow? Thunder rolled by the rolling stars Simulates triumphal cars Deployed in constellated wars Scorpion fights against the Sun Until the Sun and Moon go down Comets weep and Leonids fly Hunt the heavens and the plains Whirled in a vortex that shall bring The world to that destructive fire Which burns before the ice-cap reigns. It was not (to start again) what one had expected.

The wisdom only the knowledge of dead secrets Useless in the darkness into which they peered Or from which they turned their eyes. Bequeathing us merely a receipt for deceit? The serenity only a deliberate hebetude. in a bramble. On the edge of a grimpen. . In the middle.What was to be the value of the long looked forward to. deceiving. the quiet-voiced elders. in a dark wood. We are only undeceived Of that which. it seems to us. Long hoped for calm. There is. could no longer harm. For the pattern is new in every moment And every moment is a new and shocking Valuation of all we have been. the autumnal serenity And the wisdom of age? Had they deceived us Or deceived themselves. The knowledge imposes a pattern. where is no secure foothold. only a limited value In the knowledge derived from experience. fancy lights. And menaced by monsters. and falsifies. not only in the middle of the way But all the way. At best.

III O dark dark dark. . The generous patrons of art. The only wisdom we can hope to acquire Is the wisdom of humility: humility is endless. They all go into the dark. eminent men of letters. or to God. The houses are all gone under the sea. the vacant into the vacant. their fear of possession. Do not let me hear Of the wisdom of old men. Their fear of fear and frenzy. The captains. or to others. The dancers are all gone under the hill. The vacant interstellar spaces. the statesmen and the rulers. but rather of their folly. merchant bankers. Of belonging to another.Risking enchantment.

and the Almanach de Gotha And the Stock Exchange Gazette. the Directory of Directors. chairmen of many committees. in the tube. in a theatre. be still. And cold the sense and lost the motive of action.Distinguished civil servants. when an underground train. And dark the Sun and Moon. into the silent funeral. As. the distant panorama And the bold imposing facade are all being rolled away— Or as. Industrial lords and petty contractors. for there is no one to bury. with a movement of darkness on darkness. stops too long between stations . and let the dark come upon you Which shall be the darkness of God. And we all go with them. I said to my soul. Nobody's funeral. And we know that the hills and the trees. all go into the dark. for the scene to be changed With a hollow rumble of wings. The lights are extinguished.

. for you are not ready for thought: So the darkness shall be the light. pointing to the agony Of death and birth. Wait without thought. under ether. wait without love. and wait without hope For hope would be hope for the wrong thing. The wild thyme unseen and the wild strawberry. but requiring. The laughter in the garden. Or when. and winter lightning. there is yet faith But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting. echoed ecstasy Not lost. be still. the mind is conscious but conscious of nothing— I said to my soul. For love would be love of the wrong thing. and the stillness the dancing. Whisper of running streams.And the conversation rises and slowly fades into silence And you see behind every face the mental emptiness deepen Leaving only the growing terror of nothing to think about.

And what you do not know is the only thing you know And what you own is what you do not own And where you are is where you are not.You say I am repeating Something I have said before. I shall say it again. You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy. In order to possess what you do not possess You must go by the way of dispossession. IV . to get from where you are not. In order to arrive at what you are not You must go through the way in which you are not. In order to arrive at what you do not know You must go by a way which is the way of ignorance. Shall I say it again? In order to arrive there. To arrive where you are.

If to be warmed. And that. Beneath the bleeding hands we feel The sharp compassion of the healer's art Resolving the enigma of the fever chart. and Adam's curse. The chill ascends from feet to knees. Our only health is the disease If we obey the dying nurse Whose constant care is not to please But to remind of our. The fever sings in mental wires. if we do well. but prevents us everywhere. Wherein.The wounded surgeon plies the steel That questions the distempered part. we shall Die of the absolute paternal care That will not leave us. our sickness must grow worse. The whole earth is our hospital Endowed by the ruined millionaire. then I must freeze . to be restored.

The bloody flesh our only food: In spite of which we like to think That we are sound. substantial flesh and blood— Again.And quake in frigid purgatorial fires Of which the flame is roses. and the smoke is briars. and a different kind of failure Because one has only learnt to get the better of words For the thing one no longer has to say. having had twenty years— Twenty years largely wasted. in the middle way. The dripping blood our only drink. or the way in which . V So here I am. and every attempt Is a wholly new start. in spite of that. the years of l'entre deux guerres Trying to use words. we call this Friday good.

by men whom one cannot hope To emulate—but there is no competition— There is only the fight to recover what has been lost And found and lost again and again: and now. And so each venture Is a new beginning. Home is where one starts from. a raid on the inarticulate With shabby equipment always deteriorating In the general mess of imprecision of feeling. there is only the trying. As we grow older The world becomes stranger. The rest is not our business. under conditions That seem unpropitious. the pattern more complicated Of dead and living. has already been discovered Once or twice. But perhaps neither gain nor loss. For us.One is no longer disposed to say it. And what there is to conquer By strength and submission. Undisciplined squads of emotion. or several times. Not the intense moment .

the vast waters Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning. a deeper communion Through the dark cold and the empty desolation. But a lifetime burning in every moment And not the lifetime of one man only But of old stones that cannot be deciphered. 3 of 'Four Quartets') . Love is most nearly itself When here and now cease to matter. THE DRY SALVAGES (No. Old men ought to be explorers Here or there does not matter We must be still and still moving Into another intensity For a further union. with no before and after. A time for the evening under lamplight (The evening with the photograph album). the wind cry. The wave cry.Isolated. There is a time for the evening under starlight.

Salvages is pronounced to rhyme with assuages.E. at first recognised as a frontier. but I think that the river Is a strong brown god—sullen. Eliot (The Dry Salvages—presumably les trois sauvages—is a small group of rocks. .T. Useful. untamed and intractable. Groaner: a whistling buoy. with a beacon. coast of Cape Ann. untrustworthy. as a conveyor of commerce. Patient to some degree. off the N.) I I do not know much about gods.S. Massachusetts.

destroyer. watching and waiting. but waiting. reminder Of what men choose to forget. . The river is within us.Then only a problem confronting the builder of bridges. The pools where it offers to our curiosity The more delicate algae and the sea anemone. In the rank ailanthus of the April dooryard. implacable. however. The problem once solved. In the smell of grapes on the autumn table. the beaches where it tosses Its hints of earlier and other creation: The starfish. Unhonoured. unpropitiated By worshippers of the machine. the granite Into which it reaches. And the evening circle in the winter gaslight. the sea is all about us. the whale's backbone. Keeping his seasons and rages. The sea is the land's edge also. the horseshoe crab. His rhythm was present in the nursery bedroom. the brown god is almost forgotten By the dwellers in cities—ever.

The sea has many voices. Many gods and many voices. a time Older than the time of chronometers. are different voices Often together heard: the whine in the rigging. older Than time counted by anxious worried women . and the heaving groaner Rounded homewards. rung by the unhurried Ground swell. The shattered lobsterpot. the torn seine. The fog is in the fir trees. The salt is on the briar rose. The menace and caress of wave that breaks on water. the broken oar And the gear of foreign dead men. The sea howl And the sea yelp. and the seagull: And under the oppression of the silent fog The tolling bell Measures time not our time. And the wailing warning from the approaching headland Are all sea voices. The distant rote in the granite teeth.It tosses up our losses.

that is and was from the beginning. The silent withering of autumn flowers Dropping their petals and remaining motionless. II Where is there an end of it. before the morning watch When time stops and time is never ending. unwind. Trying to unweave. the soundless wailing. Between midnight and dawn. And the ground swell. the unprayable Prayer at the calamitous annunciation? . calculating the future. The prayer of the bone on the beach. Where is there and end to the drifting wreckage.Lying awake. when the past is all deception. The future futureless. unravel And piece together the past and the future. Clangs The bell.

to have no destination. The unattached devotion which might pass for devotionless. There is the final addition. where the fog cowers? We cannot think of a time that is oceanless Or of an ocean not littered with wastage Or of a future that is not liable Like the past. the failing Pride or resentment at failing powers. .There is no end. but addition: the trailing Consequence of further days and hours. the fishermen sailing Into the wind's tail. While emotion takes to itself the emotionless Years of living among the breakage Of what was believed in as the most reliable— And therefore the fittest for renunciation. The silent listening to the undeniable Clamour of the bell of the last annunciation. In a drifting boat with a slow leakage. Where is the end of them.

while the North East lowers Over shallow banks unchanging and erosionless Or drawing their money. The bone's prayer to Death its God. Setting and hauling. That the past has another pattern. drying sails at dockage. and ceases to be a mere sequence— Or even development: the latter a partial fallacy Encouraged by superficial notions of evolution. Only the hardly. as one becomes older. Not as making a trip that will be unpayable For a haul that will not bear examination. No end to the withering of withered flowers. To the movement of pain that is painless and motionless. To the drift of the sea and the drifting wreckage. There is no end of it. barely prayable Prayer of the one Annunciation. . It seems.We have to think of them as forever bailing. the voiceless wailing.

towards the primitive terror. Or even a very good dinner. we come to discover that the moments of agony (Whether. in the popular mind. beyond any meaning We can assign to happiness. due to misunderstanding. Is not in question) are likewise permanent . the backward half-look Over the shoulder. but the sudden illumination— We had the experience but missed the meaning.Which becomes. And approach to the meaning restores the experience In a different form. Fruition. I have said before That the past experience revived in the meaning Is not the experience of one life only But of many generations—not forgetting Something that is probably quite ineffable: The backward look behind the assurance Of recorded history. security or affection. a means of disowning the past. or not. The moments of happiness—not the sense of wellbeing. fulfilment. Having hoped for the wrong things or dreaded the wrong things. Now.

fogs conceal it. nearly experienced. Time the destroyer is time the preserver. For our own past is covered by the currents of action. Waves wash over it. The bitter apple. But the torment of others remains an experience Unqualified. People change. unworn by subsequent attrition. and the bite in the apple. We appreciate this better In the agony of others. than in our own. III . And the ragged rock in the restless waters. Involving ourselves. is what it always was. and smile: but the agony abides. cows and chicken coops. Like the river with its cargo of dead negroes. On a halcyon day it is merely a monument.With such permanence as time has. In navigable weather it is always a seamark To lay a course by: but in the sombre season Or the sudden fury.

. You cannot face it steadily. To the sleepy rhythm of a hundred hours. That time is no healer: the patient is no longer here. Pressed between yellow leaves of a book that has never been opened.I sometimes wonder if that is what Krishna meant— Among other things—or one way of putting the same thing: That the future is a faded song. a Royal Rose or a lavender spray Of wistful regret for those who are not yet here to regret. You are not the same people who left that station Or who will arrive at any terminus. When the train starts. And the way up is the way down. Fare forward. or into any future. periodicals and business letters (And those who saw them off have left the platform) Their faces relax from grief into relief. but this thing is sure. and the passengers are settled To fruit. the way forward is the way back. travellers! not escaping from the past Into different lives.

Here between the hither and the farther shore While time is withdrawn.While the narrowing rails slide together behind you. or those who will disembark. in the rigging and the aerial. And on the deck of the drumming liner Watching the furrow that widens behind you. consider the future And the past with an equal mind. you who think that you are voyaging. At the moment which is not of action or inaction You can receive this: "on whatever sphere of being The mind of a man may be intent At the time of death"—that is the one action (And the time of death is every moment) Which shall fructify in the lives of others: And do not think of the fruit of action. and not in any language) 'Fare forward. Is a voice descanting (though not to the ear. You are not those who saw the harbour Receding. At nightfall. . The murmuring shell of time. You shall not think 'the past is finished' Or 'the future is before us'.

whose shrine stands on the promontory. IV Lady. Repeat a prayer also on behalf of Women who have seen their sons or husbands . Not fare well. O voyagers. and you whose bodies Will suffer the trial and judgement of the sea.' So Krishna. as when he admonished Arjuna On the field of battle. O seamen. Or whatever event.Fare forward. and Those concerned with every lawful traffic And those who conduct them. But fare forward. those Whose business has to do with fish. voyagers. You who came to port. this is your real destination. Pray for all those who are in ships.

Queen of Heaven. release omens By sortilege. Also pray for those who were in ships. and not returning: Figlia del tuo figlio.Setting forth. evoke Biography from the wrinkles of the palm And tragedy from fingers. and Ended their voyage on the sand. haruspicate or scry. in the sea's lips Or in the dark throat which will not reject them Or wherever cannot reach them the sound of the sea bell's Perpetual angelus. or tea leaves. Observe disease in signatures. V To communicate with Mars. To report the behaviour of the sea monster. Describe the horoscope. riddle the inevitable . converse with spirits.

or tomb. and features of the press: And always will be. some of them especially When there is distress of nations and perplexity Whether on the shores of Asia. is an occupation for the saint— No occupation either. in a lifetime's death in love. The wild thyme unseen. but something given And taken. For most of us. the moment in and out of time. or music heard so deeply . Men's curiosity searches past and future And clings to that dimension. fiddle with pentagrams Or barbituric acids. there is only the unattended Moment.With playing cards. But to apprehend The point of intersection of the timeless With time. The distraction fit. lost in a shaft of sunlight. Ardour and selflessness and self-surrender. all these are usual Pastimes and drugs. or in the Edgware Road. or the winter lightning Or the waterfall. or dreams. or dissect The recurrent image into pre-conscious terrors— To explore the womb.

the gift half understood. And right action is freedom From past and future also. and reconciled. is Incarnation. content at the last . The hint half guessed. chthonic Powers. this is the aim Never here to be realised. and the rest Is prayer. Who are only undefeated Because we have gone on trying. observance.That it is not heard at all. These are only hints and guesses. We. thought and action. Here the impossible union Of spheres of existence is actual. but you are the music While the music lasts. Where action were otherwise movement Of that which is only moved And has in it no source of movement— Driven by daemonic. For most of us. Here the past and future Are conquered. discipline. Hints followed by guesses.

When the short day is brightest. with frost and fire. . on pond and ditches. Eliot I Midwinter spring is its own season Sempiternal though sodden towards sundown. 4 of 'Four Quartets') T. And glow more intense than blaze of branch. LITTLE GIDDING (No. or brazier. Reflecting in a watery mirror A glare that is blindness in the early afternoon.S. Suspended in time. In windless cold that is the heart's heat. The brief sun flames the ice.If our temporal reversion nourish (Not too far from the yew-tree) The life of significant soil. between pole and tropic.

with voluptuary sweetness. There is no earth smell Or smell of living thing. Not in the scheme of generation. the unimaginable Zero summer? If you came this way. If you came by day not knowing what you came for.Stirs the dumb spirit: no wind. If you came this way in may time. a bloom more sudden Than that of summer. Where is the summer. but pentecostal fire In the dark time of the year. you would find the hedges White again. If you came at night like a broken king. in May. This is the spring time But not in time's covenant. Now the hedgerow Is blanched for an hour with transitory blossom Of snow. . It would be the same at the end of the journey. neither budding nor fading. Between melting and freezing The soul's sap quivers. Taking the route you would be likely to take From the place you would be likely to come from.

Instruct yourself. some at the sea jaws. a husk of meaning From which the purpose breaks only when it is fulfilled If at all. If you came this way. Either you had no purpose Or the purpose is beyond the end you figured And is altered in fulfilment. in place and time.It would be the same. Or over a dark lake. Taking any route. Now and in England. when you leave the rough road And turn behind the pig-sty to the dull facade And the tombstone. At any time or at any season. You are here to kneel . There are other places Which also are the world's end. in a desert or a city— But this is the nearest. or inform curiosity Or carry report. starting from anywhere. You are not here to verify. And what you thought you came for Is only a shell. It would always be the same: you would have to put off Sense and notion.

being dead: the communication Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living. And what the dead had no speech for. the wainscot and the mouse. when living. II Ash on and old man's sleeve Is all the ash the burnt roses leave. They can tell you. Never and always. The death of hope and despair. or the sound of the voice praying. Here.Where prayer has been valid. Dust in the air suspended Marks the place where a story ended. Dust inbreathed was a house— The walls. the conscious occupation Of the praying mind. . And prayer is more Than an order of words. the intersection of the timeless moment Is England and nowhere.

Water and fire succeed The town. In the uncertain hour before the morning Near the ending of interminable night . Dead water and dead sand Contending for the upper hand. Water and fire deride The sacrifice that we denied. There are flood and drouth Over the eyes and in the mouth. Laughs without mirth. This is the death of earth. This is the death of water and fire. Of sanctuary and choir. the pasture and the weed. Water and fire shall rot The marred foundations we forgot.This is the death of air. The parched eviscerate soil Gapes at the vanity of toil.

in the brown baked features The eyes of a familiar compound ghost Both intimate and unidentifiable. I was still the same. half recalled Both one and many. and cried And heard another's voice cry: 'What! are you here?' Although we were not. Knowing myself yet being someone other— .At the recurrent end of the unending After the dark dove with the flickering tongue Had passed below the horizon of his homing While the dead leaves still rattled on like tin Over the asphalt where no other sound was Between three districts whence the smoke arose I met one walking. loitering and hurried As if blown towards me like the metal leaves Before the urban dawn wind unresisting. And as I fixed upon the down-turned face That pointed scrutiny with which we challenge The first-met stranger in the waning dusk I caught the sudden look of some dead master Whom I had known. So I assumed a double part. forgotten.

compliant to the common wind. In concord at this intersection time Of meeting nowhere. Last season's fruit is eaten And the fullfed beast shall kick the empty pail. may not remember. no before and after. Therefore speak: I may not comprehend. So with your own. .And he a face still forming. I said: 'The wonder that I feel is easy. Too strange to each other for misunderstanding. and pray they be forgiven By others. Yet ease is cause of wonder. We trod the pavement in a dead patrol. For last year's words belong to last year's language And next year's words await another voice. as the passage now presents no hindrance To the spirit unappeased and peregrine Between two worlds become much like each other. These things have served their purpose: let them be. yet the words sufficed To compel the recognition they preceded. But.' And he: 'I am not eager to rehearse My thoughts and theory which you have forgotten. as I pray you to forgive Both bad and good. And so.

the shame Of motives late revealed. Let me disclose the gifts reserved for age To set a crown upon your lifetime's effort. From wrong to wrong the exasperated spirit . Since our concern was speech. And last. Second. and speech impelled us To purify the dialect of the tribe And urge the mind to aftersight and foresight. and been. and the awareness Of things ill done and done to others' harm Which once you took for exercise of virtue. and honour stains. and the laceration Of laughter at what ceases to amuse. First. the cold friction of expiring sense Without enchantment. the conscious impotence of rage At human folly. the rending pain of re-enactment Of all that you have done. Then fools' approval stings.So I find words I never thought to speak In streets I never thought I should revisit When I left my body on a distant shore. offering no promise But bitter tastelessness of shadow fruit As body and soul begin to fall asunder.

And faded on the blowing of the horn. growing between them. and so liberation . unless restored by that refining fire Where you must move in measure. Being between two lives—unflowering. flourish in the same hedgerow: Attachment to self and to things and to persons. like a dancer. In the disfigured street He left me. with a kind of valediction. and.Proceeds. This is the use of memory: For liberation—not less of love but expanding Of love beyond desire. detachment From self and from things and from persons. indifference Which resembles the others as death resembles life.' The day was breaking. between The live and the dead nettle. III There are three conditions which often look alike Yet differ completely.

and All manner of thing shall be well. love of a country Begins as attachment to our own field of action And comes to find that action of little importance Though never indifferent. If I think. But of some peculiar genius. on the scaffold And a few who died forgotten . transfigured. Of three men. And of people. again. The faces and places. History may be freedom. of this place. Of no immediate kin or kindness. Sin is Behovely. but All shall be well. not wholly commendable. History may be servitude. See. Thus. loved them. To become renewed. If I think of a king at nightfall. as it could. and more. in another pattern. now they vanish. All touched by a common genius.From the future as well as the past. United in the strife which divided them. with the self which.

In other places. We cannot revive old factions We cannot restore old policies Or follow an antique drum. here and abroad. These men. . And of one who died blind and quiet Why should we celebrate These dead men more than the dying? It is not to ring the bell backward Nor is it an incantation To summon the spectre of a Rose. Whatever we inherit from the fortunate We have taken from the defeated What they had to leave us—a symbol: A symbol perfected in death. And all shall be well and All manner of thing shall be well By the purification of the motive In the ground of our beseeching. and those who opposed them And those whom they opposed Accept the constitution of silence And are folded in a single party.

or else despair Lies in the choice of pyre of pyre— To be redeemed from fire by fire. The only hope. . only suspire Consumed by either fire or fire.IV The dove descending breaks the air With flame of incandescent terror Of which the tongues declare The one discharge from sin and error. Who then devised the torment? Love. We only live. Love is the unfamiliar Name Behind the hands that wove The intolerable shirt of flame Which human power cannot remove.

and we go with them. An easy commerce of the old and the new. The common word exact without vulgarity. And every phrase And sentence that is right (where every word is at home. We die with the dying: See. Every poem an epitaph. they depart. The complete consort dancing together) Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning.V What we call the beginning is often the end And to make and end is to make a beginning. down the sea's throat Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start. The word neither diffident nor ostentatious. We are born with the dead: . The end is where we start from. Taking its place to support the others. to the fire. The formal word precise but not pedantic. And any action Is a step to the block.

The moment of the rose and the moment of the yewtree Are of equal duration. unremembered gate When the last of earth left to discover Is that which was the beginning. in a secluded chapel History is now and England. With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time. and bring us with them. Through the unknown. for history is a pattern Of timeless moments. A people without history Is not redeemed from time. At the source of the longest river The voice of the hidden waterfall And the children in the apple-tree . So. while the light fails On a winter's afternoon. they return.See.

always— A condition of complete simplicity (Costing not less than everything) And all shall be well and All manner of thing shall be well When the tongues of flame are in-folded Into the crowned knot of fire And the fire and the rose are one. Quick now. half-heard. now. because not looked for But heard. . in the stillness Between two waves of the sea.Not known. here.

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